The Marquis made his appearance: "I am going to drink a glass of water," he said.
Paul and Gontran accompanied him, and again descended the hill. On reaching the establishment, they saw Père Clovis, who had got there, sustained by the two Oriols, followed by Andermatt and by the doctor, and making, every time he trailed his legs on the ground, contortions suggestive of extreme pain.
"Let us go in," said Gontran, "this will be funny."
The paralytic was placed sitting in an armchair. Then Andermatt said to him: "Here is what I propose, old cheat that you are. You are going to be cured immediately by taking two baths a day. And the moment you walk you'll have two hundred francs."
The paralytic began to groan: "My legs, they are iron, my good Monchieu!"
Andermatt made him hold his tongue, and went on: "Now, listen! You shall again have two hundred francs every year up to the time of your death—you understand—up to the time of your death, if you continue to experience the salutary effect of our waters."
The old fellow was in a state of perplexity. The continuous cure was opposed to his plan of action. He asked in a hesitating tone: "But when—when it is closed up—this box of yours—if this should take hold of me again—I can do nothing then—I—seeing that it will be shut up—your water——"
Doctor Latonne interrupted him, and, turning toward Andermatt, said: "Excellent! excellent! We'll cure him every year. This will be even better, and will show the necessity of annual treatment, the indispensability of returning hither. Excellent—this is perfectly clear!"
But the old man repeated afresh: "It will not suit this time, my good Monchieu. My legs, they're iron, iron in bars."
A new idea sprang up in the doctor's mind: "If I got him to try a course of seated walking," he said, "I might hasten the effect of the waters considerably. It is an experiment worth trying."